


Nothing But Blood (2)

by 30SecondGoat



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Dark, F/M, Gen, Rewrite, life snapshot style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30SecondGoat/pseuds/30SecondGoat
Summary: The Averosians call him a barbarian. His people call him a king. But in his heart, Tryndamere knows he is only an angry man. A look into the life of the King of the Freljord, a titanic warrior, and a broken man. (This is a rewrite of an original story I posted on FF.net. Expect this to be completely different, with updated lore and hopefully better writing)
Relationships: Ashe/Tryndamere (League of Legends)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Nothing But Blood (2)

He knew nothing but blood.

Tryndamere stood atop the mountain’s face, ignoring the chilled wind that rose to meet him. Hundreds of feet below, a troll raised it’s club in a warcry, followed by dozens upon dozens more. The guttural howls echoed up the snowy hills, ominous and ethereal. Then, as one, they began to chant some strange, battle-tested ritual in a language he neither understood nor cared to.

Trundle had advanced once more.

It had been years since the Troll King had so openly marched into their kingdom. Before he had even become a bloodsworn, there had been an invasion attempt. Tryndamere had faced them at that time as well, although it was less to protect the Avarosians and more because he happened to be in the way. The battle, fought between barbarian, troll and the advance Avarosian army had been short and decisive, but bloody nonetheless.

_ And now, after all these years, they have come again. _

Tryndamere stood still, jaw clenched, as he stared out past the invading horde. The loud, burly trolls faded from his mind as he focused on the horizon. Out there, past the frozen wastelands he once called home, was a monster he still yearned to find. The Darkin that had taken his home, his family, and so many of his people. Heat rose from Tryndamere’s body as the being entered his thoughts, and his knuckles turned white on the pommel of his massive sword. Trundle, the Winter’s Claw, and even the atrocities of Noxus were all but forgotten in that moment.

He yearned for the blood of the true monster. These trolls were simply in his way.

“Listen up!” he roared, turning back to face those who had ridden out with him. They were almost all barbarians, with the occasional royal guard from the queen’s army doing their best to keep rank.

“Trundle thinks that muscle-bound monsters are enough to intimidate us! He thinks we are nothing but posh nobles now, living in houses of plenty and sleeping in soft beds!”

There were scattered chuckles as the warriors grinned, wolflike, at their leader’s words.

“He thinks that we have become indistinguishable from the Avarosians, and have joined them in a life of comfort!”

More laughter now, along with scoffs and jeers aimed at the few royal guard.

“Trundle thinks that he can have this day. But let’s remind him who the bloodsworn really are! Let’s remind all of Freljord that the blood of barbarians is still strong within us!”

Shouts of agreement now sprang forth from the army, swords and shields rattling as the warriors grew in excitement.

“And let’s cut these bastards down until the snow runs black with their blood!”

With a final cry the army surged forward, ignoring any attempt at order by the royal guard. With Tryndamere as the head of the spear they swarmed down the mountain face, bare chests, backs and arms shrugging off the cold, powerfully forged weapons eager to taste purchase. From the troll’s ranks another cry went out, and the large beasts answered with a charge of their own.

Both sides collided with a mighty crash, followed by complete chaos. Sickening thuds sent men and women flying as red and black blood began to spray across the battlefield. Greatsword and ax met club as the two sides pushed, countered, turned and vied for any semblance of control, any measure of advancement.

The lines slowly disintegrated into skirmishes, and it became clear that the trolls were being overrun. More and more fell, and as the barbarians pushed forward the surviving trolls’ morale snapped. With a panicked cry, they turned and ran, ditching their clubs and other weapons in favor of greater speed away.

Tryndamere watched them go, his heart still pumping in his ears, eyes viewing the scene through a curtain of red. A compulsion rose within him, with a frenzied strength so great he could hardly contain it.

_ Go! Follow them! Cut them down, leave none alive! Destroy them entirely! DRAIN THEIR BLOOD FROM THEIR LIFELESS BODIES! _

His hands shook, fingers wrapped so tightly around his weapon that the knuckles turned white. Then he took a deep breath and called out to the few warriors still giving chase.

“Enough! Let the cowards run. Let them spread stories of fear and defeat.”

Raising his sword above his head, he gave a savage grin.

“We are victorious!”

Roars of triumph rose from all around him, as barbarian men and women raised their own weapons in return salute. The royal guard stood to the side, stoic, their eyes saying more than enough words. Tryndamere ignored them, turning to assess the casualties instead. There were multiple injuries, ranging in severity, but few deaths. They would burn an altar for them later.

As the celebrations died down and gave way to the more somber job of tending the wounded and the dead, Tryndamere rose up again and walked to the edge of the battlefield. His body, already healed of injury, was smeared with the black and red blood of ally and enemy. Once more his vision flashed red, and he saw the demonic Darkin silhouetted against the horizon, sun low into its descent.

Blood on his hands, blood on his sword, blood on the ground. Everything he did, everything he touched, was saturated, covered, drowning in blood.

Blinking once, twice, then three times he cleared his head. With several deep breaths, he forced himself to turn and begin the long march back towards his home. Back to the nation that only tolerated him, the people that didn’t want him, and the queen he served. He would receive no thanks, and his people no reward for what they did today. Instead they would continue their lives as outcasts, and he would return to his frozen castle and sleep on the opposite side of the bed as his wife.

Blood on his boots, blood on his clothes, blood on his face.

In the end, none of it mattered, for he knew nothing else.

Nothing but blood.


End file.
